


Under New Management

by orphan_account



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coma the Doof Warrior adjusts as leadership shifts from The Immortan Joe to his former wives</p><p>Written as a kinkmeme prompt fill to this prompt right here<br/>http://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/450.html?thread=1093826#cmt1093826</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under New Management

They locked him in his little room at night, it was how he knew it to be night. most likely anyway, sometimes there was just too much activity beyond his door. 

There were no windows. What use were they to a blind man, they had reasoned. what would a window be but a potential hole in the wall for him to fall through. It wasn't like he could tell the difference they laughed.

The gloried blind bard, poster child of The Immortan Joe's benevolence, songbird of the Citadel. 

A symbol of what kindness and clemency awaited those who fled to the Citadel to rest beneath The Immortans gaze, was locked alone in the dark when he wasn't needed. 

Everyone knew his face, though he didn't know theirs. And the seclusion only added to his notoriety, even if it was, unbeknownst to most, forced.

If The Immortan had brought his herald, the soundtrack to his war on the world, even the most headstrong saw good reason to run.

On the days when nobody had yet seen fit to unlock the door and take him by the arm to his wagon, lift him up onto his pedestal and strap him to his post for the day to the shouting of the war boys and the wretched alike, In his room was where he remained, strumming out little tunes on an old and beaten instrument, humming under his breath, scratching new riffs in grooves filed into the stone walls. Anything to stay sane.

Sometimes, during the little breaks they took while out on the big raids or hauls, he would get to speak with the others. They seemed a nice enough sort, if a bit rigid in their opinions. There was something to be said for their enthusiasm however.

On very rare occasions, when The Immortan was especially pleased with them he suspected, he would be pulled from his dark through the tunnels farther up, to the wives chambers, and deposited in a chair to play for a little gathering of women only a select few were ever allowed to so much as glimpse.

He liked playing for them, they weren't as vocally appreciative as the war parties, but he could hear them gather round, hear them relaxing in their seats to tunes softer, older, than the usual fare. And that was nice too. 

It felt good to be appreciated, to be useful. Mother had been worried he knew, of what would become of him out there in the big wide world, so it was good be have found a place, a spot in the hierarchy just for him. And not at the bottom of it either, unlike most of those who found themselves at a disadvantage in the wasteland.

 

The call to arms felt like it was shaking the Citadel's great towers apart. 

He had heard, during the morning, the war boys leaving with the war rig for Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. that much was routine, a surplus of produce, mother's milk and aqua cola off to be traded for what they couldn't produce themselves. All of it very normal.

This was decidedly abnormal, the call was usually quieter, the armada smaller, the unlocking of his door and pulling on his arm less frantic. An imperator gone rogue they said. The Immortan's most trusted run off with the most precious of all that which he deemed his possessions.

He changed hands quickly between the stressed war boys, in a gradual push and pull out into the stifling warmth of the sunlight towards the doof wagon until he reached it and they lifted him up, some pushing him up by his legs the others pulling from above on his clothes.

The air stank of guzzoline and exhaust fumes, engines roaring and revving. They were bringing more than ever before for this chase, no wonder everyone was so up in arms. The Immortan Joe must be furious he thought to himself as the bungee cords were clipped in place, and his fingertips found the warm metal surface of his guitar.

He was barely settled before the wagon was moving, the war boys hands quickly fleeing him to take up their own stations, the drummers behind him pounding down on the hides stretched across their drums. 

He could already feel the winds brought on by the wagons speed pressing on his body by the time his fingers found the strings, it was good fun being The Immortan's Doof Warrior. 

He could play and rock to his hearts content with the roar of engines and war boys in his ears and the pounding of drums and bass deep in his chest, and they would listen even as they crashed and died around him, as would their enemies.

Yes, this was great fun, even if the battle didn't matter to him, he only concerned himself with the soundtrack. What the others did was their business, their orders. And even if the air wasn't clean it was at the very least fresh the smells varied and ever changing, the echoes on stone and cliff magnificent.

The race had gone on for a long time now, they had been chasing the war rig for a day at least, losing it in a bog, then finding it again speeding across the wastes. They were heading back to the Citadel Joe had shouted, yes, Coma nodded to himself as the engines reignited and the war party took off again, Joe was definitely going to give himself a heart attack at this rate.

The pull on his loose suit surprised him, though the bounce back did not. A man wearing a jacket was on the wagon! Blocking his way back to his guitar, knocking the tanned leather from where it sat on his head and Coma jumped forward landing against his guitar, found it! He enthused with adrenaline rushing through his veins, as he heard the sudden intruder hopping around ahead of him, War boys right on his heels.

They were indeed going back, he noted silently, strumming ever harder, pushing the strings to their limits, he recognized the echoes of his notes on the rocks, this was the same crevice they had come through earlier.

Then the wagon sped, and crashed against the back of the one in front, they must be getting desperate he thought, momentarily shaken from his rhythm by the impact, another crash ahead of them only a minute later. Yep, things were really heating up.

"HE'S DEAD! HE'S DEAD" A woman's voice cried out, The Immortan? Could the runaways really have succeeded in killing him?

There was screeching and crashing, the wagon braking suddenly before violently slamming into an obstacle ahead. The guitar pulled out of his hands by the force as he was flung forward and he heard the creaking of the bungee cords stretching out to their fullest. 

He had only a brief moment to hope they would hold before the forces reversed and he was thrown back against the great wall of speakers behind him, his back smacking harshly against wood that cracked beneath his flesh until he was pulled forward again, floating through space he bounced back and forth limbs flailing, intermittently being struck rudely by his own guitar, for a grip or foothold until the cycle finally slowed and he found the edge of his little stage with his feet. 

Able to finally counteract the movement and bring it to a slow stop as the shriek of metal, fire and war boys, quieted around him to a worrying stillness.

A few were still moving around, he could hear, confirming his earlier suspicions that The Immortan Joe was indeed dead. Worrying over what to do now, digging each other out from under fallen vehicles, some simply despairing at the knowledge that their supposedly immortal leader was dead, for that surely made The Immortan Joe, ultimately, a liar.

He provided a soundtrack as best he could through broken speakers and frayed cords, all they could do now was look over the damages and try to make the best of what they had left. Immortan or no.

\---

The Imperator Furiosa and the former "wives" of the slain Immortan quickly established, upon their triumphant return, that they would have to go back towards Joe's fallen army to salvage all that could be made useful to them.

So, gathering up as many tow vehicles and willing war boys as they could they returned hours later to the scene of their victory.

The war rig was just as it had crashed, on its side, blocking the entrance to the pass with it's bulk, they could hear no running engines on the other side, though there where clearly survivors, sitting upon the hoods and cabs of their cars listening to the crackling sounds of a guitar still being played by its musician.

So far so good, the more could be salvaged before the scavengers that roamed the wastelands day and night arrived, the better.

Capable was among the first to take off running towards the wreckage of the war rig, calling out for her war boy friend the whole way till he poked his head out of an upturned window, visibly struggling to pull himself out by his ravaged hands.

"NUX!" she cried climbing the war rig clumsily, to eventually stand on its door grasping at his forearm and lifting with all her might, in vain, until a few war boys following her finally reached them and pitched in as well, pulling their fellow, a leg dangling oddly at mid calf, broken no doubt, from the rigs cab.

As they climbed down, to the cheering of the war boys of the salvage party, the tow trucks carefully backed into position, with the war boys tying their winches around the rig to begin pulling it free of the stone.

With Nux settled into the backseat of the former Immortans car they, the wives and Furiosa that is, grouped up on the sidelines to discuss their plan of action. 

"The Coma-Doof warrior must still be alive if the guitar is playing right?" said Toast. "Most likely" replied Furiosa. "He could be very useful if we can convince him as well to work for us instead, the wretched still see him as a symbol of a better future"

"The future Joe was SUPPOSED to give them" The Dag growled angrily.  
Capable raised her hands in a calming gesture. "WE will give it to them, Joe doesn't have a say anymore"

They were soon drowned out by the sounds of metal grating on stone and wheels churning in the sand as the war rig was gradually pulled free and righted. Revealing the gathered mass of war boys beyond, all of them aching for a chance to be useful to someone again.

The war rig was the first vehicle to be towed back, with its engine in pieces it took several of the biggest trucks to move it, but its cargo was simply too valuable to risk any longer.

Then came the doof wagon, the wives and Furiosa climbing up to speak with the surprisingly calm, though very bruised and shaken, Coma. He was quick to agree to their rule and chose to stay with his wagon while it was towed back towards the Citadel.

One by one, war boys and vehicles alike returned, either pulling or being pulled. Things slowly settled as the day wound down, the wretched drinking their fill of water and the war boys passing on their stories to those who had not been fortunate enough to have been a part of the war band.

Coma was left, for the first time in a very long time, to his own devices. He could find the way back to his room just fine but chose not to go there. Instead he wandered the repair garages and war boy halls listening to them bustling around him, with his guitar slung across his back hanging heavily from his shoulders he wandered, marveling at his newfound freedom.

These were tunnels occupied by the little ones, he could tell, their footfalls so much lighter than their grown brethren. They whispered around him, pointing probably, as the others had been doing since he started his little round trip.

He walked quietly on till felt his leg gently strike one, eliciting a little yip and the sound of the whole lot of them quickly scampering away. "Oh sorry" he smiled down at where he hoped the pup to be.

No one said anything as he straightened his back again, he could hear a few breathing quickly, all of them frozen in place.  
They're frightened of me?

Changing his mind he settled down on the sandy rock of the tunnel and pulled his guitar to his front strumming a few chords, then a gently lilting little tune his mother had played for him when he had woken from nightmares as a child. The light footsteps came just a little closer.

As the tune went from soothing to energetic and jaunty, he heard them ever so slowly daring to inch closer, to get a better look at him, to hear him more clearly.

How long, have they been apart from their mothers, he wondered.

Did it matter? He would share the music his own had given him with any who would listen. Even the pups deserved a reprieve now and then. 

The songs slowly morphed into what could only be called riffs as he heard them starting to shift in the sand, rocking their heads back and forth, turning towards each other and him with smiles on their faces. 

The riffs came faster, fit more and more for a battleground, as a brave few tapped their feet loudly or drummed out beats on walls and metal.

They were gaining courage quickly now, he noticed, enjoying the music thoroughly.

\---

It was inevitable of course, that at some point somebody would come over to see what all the fuss was about, what they were all so excited over.

And as the remaining four wives weaved their way through the crowd of headbanging and moshing war pups. They had their questions answered. 

A white painted man in a red onesie far too big for him and a scratched up and half broken guitar in just the right size sat at the center of the circle, rocking back and forth as hard as his audience was, luxuriating in his work.

"And what do we do with him" Toast spoke. Coma looked up in surprise, he had not heard them come, wrapped up in his own little world as he was.

"Well, we can't very well throw a blind man to the wastes, we are going to take care of everyone here right? Might as well start somewhere" Capable pitched in, "let's just take him with us, he always seemed pretty harmless".

"No such thing as harmless in the Wasteland" said The Dag.

"still" Capable enthused, laying a gentle hand on Coma's forearm to halt his now very quiet playing. "What harm could he do? If anything we are a danger to him" 

Coma didn't seem to agree, calmly getting up from his spot on the floor and readjusting his guitar to rest against his back so he could use his hands. He stood and turned his head towards them, tilting it slightly to let them know he was listening.

"what do you think" Cheedo quietly asked him. "Will you play for our sake instead of his" 

"Sure" the word flew right out of his mouth. "I wouldn't mind at all, never really bought into that whole cult thing myself". He smiled softly, well aware that his teeth were not a pretty sight.

"well, good! It was all bullshit anyway" The dag grumbled sourly. 

Capable chimed in with an amicable okay and took him by the hand. "You must be hungry at least! and that suit of yours looks like it could really use a good washing"

Coma hummed contemplatively. "While it is true that I could use a bite to eat, my clothes have seen worse believe me!" He laughed kindly.

"In any case, we'll take him up to our chambers and figure it out from there" Toast said, her voice full of newfound authority.

\---

Coma was, as they had gradually discovered, of an increasingly rare breed. even after weeks had passed and he wandered freely to and fro all over the citadel, where ever there was war pups to be found was a particularly popular place to find him as well, they had never caught him in a lie. Coma was genuine.

Though some, The Dag in particular, made jabs about how his deformed face and resulting disability had seemingly exalted him above those who called themselves perfect, they were all growing increasingly fond of him.

It was difficult not to, the way he bounced about when he was playing one of his favorite songs, the way he had taken to their piano so studiously, as if trying to gently coerce it into surrendering all its secrets to him. 

He did not look at them the way Joe used too, he did not look at them at all, and there was a sense of comfort to be found in that.

As it was he was sitting next to Cheedo on her bed, listening carefully to her iteration of a story in one of their books with his shoulder leaning into hers and his head resting back against the wall, hands folded in his lap quiet and respectful of her somewhat stumbling words.

When the story came to a close he leaned over, kissed her chastely on the cheek and then thanked her. "You're welcome" she said pressing her lips to the tip of his nose before pulling him into a hug.

"Shall I play you something in return?" He asked.  
"Only if you want to" She laughed.  
"I always want to!" He said, now laughing under his breath as well.

They had helped him fix the guitar back up so the notes no longer screeched or bent oddly, it was the least he could do.

Getting up and picking up his guitar from where he had left it at the foot of the bed, he walked out into the great common room to take his usual seat in the chair with his bare feet in the pool of water in the middle. 

He had fallen in a few times, which the wives had only been happy to exploit as another opportunity to have his clothes washed. They were as obsessed with washing as his mother had been!

The other former wives came by in their own time, turning his head with a hand on his cheek and kissing him gently on the lips, Capable even rubbed her nose against his for a brief moment. 

His fingers slowly walked up and down the neck of his guitar picking out notes as the fancy struck him, delighted with the intimacies of his situation.

It was nice to be able to get out of his room when he pleased, he found the noise of the garages and corridors far more inspirational than the quiet and cold air of his own room.

Though he did find the habit some of the war pups had developed of draping themselves over his outstretched legs when he came by with his latest new riffs a little annoying, as a whole he did not mind. 

Not even when they had goaded one another into jumping onto his back and pulling him to the ground in a surprise game of king of the castle, whooping and throwing themselves onto his slain body.

\---

"Coma! Coma honestly! You are being ridiculous" Toast insisted pulling firmly at his collar, tugging the buttons open and struggling to pull the fabric down the less than cooperative mans shoulders.

"No! I don't want to, it's embarrassing!" he argued trying to wriggle his way free of her grasp much to the amusement of the other wives.

"What's embarrassing is you smelling like you just crawled out of a hole somewhere!" 

"We live in a hole in a tower!"

"No excuse!" 

She finally got his arms out of their sleeves, his onesie pulled down to his apparently ticklish waist at last. Almost immediately he guffawed with laughter, kicking his legs, his hands desperately trying to squirm their way under hers to stop this reveal of his fatal flaw.

His ticklishness would indeed be his downfall as he was easily felled in his fits of laughter, Toast finally pulling the onesie all the way down his legs as he rolled giggling on the sandy floor.

She was quick to throw his clothes far off to the side where he would not be able to find them before pushing him into their pool for a bath.

"I'm telling you this is sheer humiliation!" the naked man yelled in mock indignation from his watery prison.

"You'll live" the wives laughed back at him.


End file.
